The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ANABELLE

Parents I’d like to return to the store: 2

I return to the B they don’t care to understand me.

“Thank you.” My voice is shaky, so I clear it. “And I’m getting you a new suit and beard.”

“Joe already threatened me, but I think I like this one. It leaves a lot to the imagination.”

His voice is almost playful, but truthfully his outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. Everything he wears is strained by his broad shoulders and muscular arms and chest, even his oversized Santa suit.

I clear my throat. “Where is Joe?”

He smiles again, mischievously this time. “He went upstairs. Ben was on a bit of a sugar high from the hot chocolate, and Joe suddenly developed a headache. Who would have thought?” He pauses, his expression shifting. “How are you, Anabelle?”

“We’re not going to talk about the kiss. It didn’t happen.”

His face completely serious now, he says in an undertone, “We don’t have to talk about it, but it definitely happened.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it happening again. I’m mortified.”

He reaches for my chin and turns it firmly toward him. “I’m taking a guess on what mortified means, but you’ve got no cause to be embarrassed by anything. You didn’t kiss me. We kissed each other. I’d wanted to kiss you for days. But that doesn’t mean we should do it again.” He speaks softly, so we can’t be overheard by the guests in the parlor, but every word is perfectly enunciated.

“You think I’m a na?ve child,” I say, feeling emotion tumble through my gut. “You’re worried you’re going to break my heart.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” he chides. “And who says it’s me who’d break your heart?”

I frown, taken aback. I’ve never thought myself capable of breaking anyone’s heart, or even seriously wounding them. I’m used to other people meaning more to me than I do to them.

My lips open, although I have no idea what I intended to say, so I’m glad when he continues, “Look, I just…it’s better if we stay friends. I want to be your friend. Please let me be your friend.”

No one has ever spoken to me like this before. There’s something so raw and honest about him. The unfortunate truth is that it makes me want to pull him to me by that ridiculous beard and kiss him. But I don’t. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m still upset about what you told me last night. But I think I’m more upset with my grandmother.”

He considers this for a moment before nodding. Then he gestures toward the front of the house and my desk. “Do you want to go somewhere more private to talk for a minute?”

Not really, but also yes, really.

“Okay,” I say, sensing Lauryn watching us. She might only be watching Ryan, actually, waiting for him to come back. Maybe she likes his soft hazel eyes too. She might want to invite him up to her room later.

Well, probably not, given that she’s staying with her son, and Ryan’s rooming with Joe, but the thought has thorns.

Ryan might not want to kiss me again, but I can tell he’s kissed lots of women. He’s not confident in his intelligence and skills, but he is physically confident. I can see it in his easiness on his feet and everything he does. He’d know what to do with a woman—a thought that makes me hot behind the ears.

He takes the first step, and I follow him, trying not to stare at the way his body moves beneath his clothes. When he reaches my desk, he stops and turns toward me, watching me from behind that ridiculous fake beard. If he thinks it’s weird that I slide behind the desk, into my comfort zone, he has the grace not to say so.

“Grandma Edith didn’t think I could do this on my own,” I tell him, continuing our conversation as if he hadn’t pressed pause on it. “No one does. Maybe I don’t either, because I asked Joe to help me. And the guests.” And you.

“I don’t think it was about doubting you, Anabelle,” he says, his eyes intent on my face. “She knew she was leaving you, and she didn’t want to, so she did whatever she could to keep you safe and happy.” He lowers his head, almost bashful. “Truth be told, I'm honored that she was so convinced I’d be coming back.”

A wave of emotion tries to pull me off my feet. “Why do you think I need help? Did she…” Discomfort forms pretzels in my chest; anxiety eats them. “Did she tell you that I’m on the spectrum?”

“No,” he says, reaching for my hand across the desk and then stopping himself. “No, but Joe told me this afternoon. I don’t know too much about it, but I did some googling on my phone.”

“Ugh, don’t google. Every time I try to google something medical, the internet tells me I have bacterial meningitis or cancer.”

He smiles at me. “I’m not a road scholar. Google is what I’ve got.”

I think he means Rhodes, but the last thing I’d do right now is correct him. Even though a part of me is itching to do just that.

“You can ask me,” I say. “And I’ll tell you one thing for free, no asking required. I don’t like it when people treat me like an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of doing things on my own.”

“I know you are,” he says seriously. “A hell of a lot more capable than most people. When were you diagnosed?”

I look away, remembering that time. Feeling the crush of it. “In my early twenties. I was…college was okay for me. The lecture halls were too loud, but no one else wanted to sit in the front row, so it usually worked out. But afterward, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my literature degree. So I took an admin job at an advertising company. It was awful. My job was in this office where there weren’t any personal cubicles, just communal desks. It was supposed to make us all like each other more, or something, but it was so loud and overwhelming. I kept having panic attacks, and I went to see a psychologist. She was the one who suggested that I do the testing.”

“You worked in advertising,” he says with soft smile. “No wonder you hated it.”

I fuss with the hem of my shirt. “It was so draining. I never felt like I had any energy, and my thoughts kept spiraling.”

“Is it like that for you here?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “I’m not good with strangers.”

“I was a stranger a few days ago, and you’ve always been ‘good’ with me.”

“You knew Grandma Edith.” But that’s not the whole reason. He’s good with people—even people like me, who usually struggle to respond to deceptively simple questions like How are you?

He nods. “Yeah, I get that. But is it any fun for you, working here? Don’t you have your online business?”

“You sound like my father right now.”

His expression darkens. “Was he trying to get you to sell to Weston? Was Weston at the dinner tonight?”

“Ew, no.”

He laughs.

I poke his very solid chest. “Santa lesson one. Santa doesn’t have a sexy laugh. He has a jolly laugh. You’ll need to work on that.”

“Should I be taking notes?”

“Probably. Take notes on this too. I might not be good at pandering to strangers, but I want to run the B&B,” I say, a thread of anger weaving through the words. It’s as I’m saying it that I realize how true this is. I’m not doing this because I’m rigid or stubborn, which my parents have accused me of being. I’m doing it because the thought of a world without this place pains me. I’m doing it because this is one of the only places I’ve ever felt at home.

I’m doing it because ever since I decided to embrace Ryan’s idea about making it a Christmas inn, my heart has wrapped around and around the idea of The Gingerbread House until it formed a picture in my mind. And now, I can’t bear to let go of it.

Ryan touches my hand for half a second, maybe a quarter, but the phantom of his hand lingers on my skin. “I know that, but you should be able to enjoy doing it. That’s what I want to help you do. I think that’s what all of your friends want for you. I’m hoping the rebranding will help. Because it’ll be easier to deal with strangers if they want to talk about something you love.”

I stare at him in shocked silence while he gives me a winning smile.

“I’m still upset,” I say.

“As is your God-given right.”

“But I suppose it’s nice that you want to help me, even if it’s just because my grandmother asked.”

“It really isn’t,” he says, his voice a bit louder. Emphatic.

“Good.”

I should have kept my mouth shut, but he doesn’t throw back a quip. He just smiles, his eyes bright. “Will you come have a drink with us, oh Queen of Christmas? Enoch’s got some good thoughts, and the little guy’s a natural artist. I’ve been trying to think of not creepy ways to ask him to let me photograph his work.”

“There aren’t any.”

I consider his offer for a long time. Maybe uncomfortably long. But I finally nod. I want to spend more time with my guests, and if Enoch really is a branding expert, I’d be a fool to miss out on the opportunity to talk to him. “I’ll come, but not quite yet. I need a minute to myself.”

“Of course,” he says, and I can feel the smile behind his words. “Oh, before I forget, Joe and I are going to rescue his stuff tomorrow, if you’d like to come.”

I feel those snakes roiling in my gut, the way they do prior to any adventure, minor or major. But I want to support Joe, to give Craig withering looks, and to spend the entire morning with Ryan.

“I will,” I say. “But for now, I need…”

I trail off, but he nods, his eyes warm. “I know. You take what you need.”

We walk toward the parlor together, and he gives me one final grin before stepping inside as if it’s easy. I smile and wave at the guests, and to my surprise, they return the gesture.

“I’ll be back down in a minute,” I tell them, feeling my heart speed up with the words. It’s hard to shake the old fears. They probably don’t care where you’re going or if you’ll be back. It’s better if you’re alone.

I turn to go up to my room and make it to the bottom step before Ryan says my name softly by the stairs again. He’s holding a shopping bag, and scratching the back of his head with his other hand.

“Déjà-vu.”

“Sorry,” he says, then shoves the bag at me. “I got this for you. Just a little something for your collection.”

I glance inside and find a fuzzy little orange cat in a Santa suit. My heart quakes. “You got me a Santa cat.”

I shuffle on my feet a little, feeling joy take the wheel. Sometimes it really is the little things. His thoughtful gift feels like proof that even if I don’t mean as much to him as he’s beginning to mean to me, I mean something. It shows his attentions toward me and the inn aren’t only about my grandmother.

“The humping convinced me that Saint Nick might need a friend his own size.”

I beam at him, delighted. “You’re basically encouraging me to get Saint Nick a costume, Santa .”

He grins back at me, his whole face alight with it. I feel a tugging sensation inside of me. “Well, if I could get you to believe, I figure I can definitely convince a bunch of impressionable children.”